


History obliterates, in every picture it paints

by Niahara_Erskine



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Character Death, Drinking, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Gwash is the best boss, Hurt No Comfort, I have no idea why i wrote this, It might have a sequel, M/M, Modern AU, Or not, Sad, Seriously it's just Alex suffering, abandonement, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 22:20:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17413604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niahara_Erskine/pseuds/Niahara_Erskine
Summary: It’s just the beginning, though he does not know it then, the first in a list of many to leave, the first name added next to that of his mother – dead -, to his father – gone who knew where -, the first to disappear from the family that he had made for himself when his own had crumbled, that he had fought for and bled for, that he had thought he could hold onto forever, and oh what a fool he had been.Because if anything else, Alexander Hamilton was always meant to be alone.





	History obliterates, in every picture it paints

“See you soon, love,” John had said as he hugged him for a last time before the security check, the ticket for Europe slightly crumbled in his hands due to excitement, his freckles standing out in the bright light of the morning, the hustle and bustle of the airport unable to foretell the tragedy that was to come, the news of the bombing reaching him hours and hours after the last vestige of John’s presence had faded from this word, his smile forever lost in a chaos of ash and smoke and despair.

The news hits him at work, when he takes his lunch break, Washington’s face graver than usual, the quiet, almost whispered ** _‘son’_** – a word he still despises to hear from his boss’ lips but has come to grudgingly accept anyway – said with sorrow saturated in each letter. ‘Son’, he says and beckons him to his office, wordlessly turns on the TV and shows him the news, catches him as he crumbles when the name John Laurens is mentioned among the victims – _dead, dead, dead, gone forever_ -, holds him as he howls his sorrow even as the news anchor drones on and on how John had saved a child, shielded them with his body, gave them a chance where none could have been had.

_A hero._

_A martyr._

_Gone, gone, gone._

The word drums on and on in his mind, the cruel reality relentlessly reminding him of the truth he would love nothing more than to ignore, mocking him with her cruel whispers. Gone, gone, gone, nothing but a ghost presence lingering in the memory of their last kiss, an imprint of the past carved in his heart as he numbly goes through the routine of the funeral, watches the casket lowered in the earth – closed, John’s body unrecognizable due to the blast.

_“See you soon, love,”_ John had said and what a lie it had been, a beautiful crumbling lie that tastes like ash on his tongue as the minister reads the words of God – a God John didn’t even necessarily believe in – as Henry Laurens makes an appearance just because his son had died famous, makes a show of his presence at the funeral even though he had cut John off years and years ago when he and Alex had first come out.

“See you soon, love,” echoes in his mind, in his heart as he lies alone in the dark, their bed too big, too cold for one-person, unsent messages written and deleted on his phone, aimed at a number that no longer held an owner, screen wet with tears that won’t stop falling.

It’s just the beginning, though he does not know it then, the first in a list of many to leave, the first name added next to that of his mother – dead -, to his father – gone who knew where -, the first to disappear from the family that he had made for himself when his own had crumbled, that he had fought for and bled for, that he had thought he could hold onto forever, and oh what a fool he had been.

Because if anything else, Alexander Hamilton was always meant to be _**alone.**_

* * *

 

“Au revoir, mon ami,” and oh Lafayette’s smile is sad instead of excited, the loss they had both felt present in his ever-fidgeting hands, in the sharp phantom of fear stark in brown eyes, small tremors wrecking his lithe body as he turnd and heads towards the terminal, the plane towards France calling for a last boarding. He had delayed as long as he had been able to, lingered as long as he could, waited for Alex to pick himself up again, for the numbness to be shoved back to the edge of his mind, for the fervor of his writing and the hurricane of the words dancing in his mind to come to life again, to unmute after the silence that had been prevalent after John’s dead.

Lafayette has waited and Alexander cannot help but be grateful for that wait, but at the same time he has still decided to leave, still added his name to an ever-growing list Alex has come to hate, tore apart their group even more. John died, Laff leaves and soon it would be just Herc and Alex left in New York, an illusion of a past that could never come again, a mockery of the bonds that he had cherished so.

“I’m sorry, Alexander. I cannot,” Lafayette starts to say, his eyes so sad, so very sad, but he is cut off before he can finish, the urgent call for boarding making his steps hasten. He boards his plane and leaves for France where he can put aside the pain and the sorrow, paint the memories in the beautiful glow of nostalgia instead of the dark grey shadows of sorrow. He never truly continues that thought, laughs it off every time Alexander asks whenever they call each other, ignores it in the inquisitive texts sent over the course of months.

And when he meets Adrienne, when the love of his life literally stumbles in his path, a cup of coffee dropped on his shoes and a flustered smile accompanying her, his messages dwindle from hourly to daily, from daily to weekly, until Alexander hardly dares to reach out anymore.

And the list grows with yet another name.

* * *

 

Hercules is the last one of their group who leaves and by now Alexander is resigned, cold anticipation lodged like a vice claw in his heart until he hears the words he had been dreading – expecting – for so long uttered almost inaudibly over the beating drums of the club, the thump of dance steps on the floor and the laughter ringing all around.

“I’m leaving the city, Alex. Got a new job in Brussels. I’ll be able to design my own clothing line there,” Hercules’ smile is strained, tense, a simulacrum of the boisterous laughter that would boom whenever the four of them gathered, an attempt at comfort that he neither felt nor succeeded in, not when it was clear he wanted to be far, far away from the city that held all of their dearest – and now most painful – memories. His words, likewise, are tense, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a hit that is yet to come and with a sense of desperate hysteria Alexander wonders why it is Hercules that is expecting for the fall, what fears does he nurture when he is not the one left behind once again, abandoned without remorse when all else moves forward in his life.

“I’m happy for you,” he grins, fake and fey, takes a shot of whiskey and claps Hercules on the shoulder as if whishing to show through gestures rather than words how delighted he is at the opportunity his friend was presented with – he isn’t, he can’t be, but he lies because what else he can do, lies and laughs and drinks until they are both beyond tipsy, until Hercules hails a cab for himself and Alexander remains behind, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He stays behind, gaze lost in the glass of whiskey that is only half drunk, rooted in place, his hand twitching at his side, grasping desperately at a loose thread as he forces himself not to reach forward, to try to catch the air as if he desperately wants to try and keep his tattered family – makeshift, because Lord knows his own had long been gone – together, a futile attempt to bring back the days of their youth, their easy going camaraderie, the peace and quiet of nights spend watching Disney movies till morning light and weekends spent cramming in the library. Days before everything had gone oh so wrong, before John had died, before Lafayette had to return to France, before Hercules would leave, before, before, before…

* * *

 

Eliza leaves without nary a word; her dress is blue, the only imprint of color he can remember from a world that had suddenly turned to monochrome yet again. Her bags, her smile, her eyes, all turn to the dullest of grey apart from the blue dress – the one they had picked up together oh so long ago – sharp and taunting as she turns on her heels and lets the door slam behind her.

“You’re still in love with a ghost, Alexander and I cannot keep coming second to him. I’m sorry, ” she says as she leaves, tears trailing down her cheeks, a tinge of bergamot and rose drifting behind her, the scent of her favorite perfume slowly dispersing just like her presence in his life.

The words shatter something in his soul, because it has never been a competition, not between them. John had been sly remarks and ink stained fingers, mocha kisses and angels in the snow. Eliza had been sunshine and smiles, the scent of flowers following in her wake and small fingers at his temples, shy kisses and lingering touches. Never a competition, never a comparison, because they had been oh so different, but Alexander had loved them the same, fierce, and bright and all-consuming until they had both left his life, until John had died, and Eliza had left, an aching hole carved in his heart where each presence had been.

He does not know when his knees give up behind him, when his body collides with the cold marble with a sharp thud, does not register the keening sound that escapes his lips. All he can focus on is the sharp pain in his ribcage, the thundering staccato of loss and abandonment, the echo of her words still lingering in the space between them, the ever-lasting image of her back turned to her, etched in his memory forever, and oh why is such a scene achingly familiar by now.

And once again he is alone, always alone, adrift in the maelstrom that is his life, the haunting echo of their existence reminding him that he will never get to keep the people he loves in his life.


End file.
